


A Marvelous Tradition

by Gwyn_Paige



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, New Year's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22010893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: Crowley intended to ring in the new year with Aziraphale properly.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 72
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	A Marvelous Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [syzygystardust13](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=syzygystardust13).



> This is my gift to [syzygystardust13](https://syzygystardust13.tumblr.com) over on Tumblr for the 2019 Good Omens Holiday Swap. The prompt I chose was “The pair ushering in the New Year with kisses and booze ~~and sex~~ ” (I can’t write smut, sorry!) Happy New Year to you Stardust, and I hope you enjoy this!

It was 11:00 PM on New Year’s Eve in Soho, and an angel and a demon were sitting in an old bookshop, watching television together and drinking heavily.

Aziraphale’s television set should not have been able to get any channels. The set was a 12-inch cathode ray affair, and it sat on a shelf in the depths of Aziraphale’s bookshop, and absolutely no wires ran into or out of it.

The television set worked anyway. Moreover, it got hundreds of channels, some of which were no longer actually on cable anymore, but since Crowley liked them they were often miraculously available. More-moreover, it was now playing a broadcast from New York City that wasn’t set to air for about five more hours, because what fun was watching the Times Square New Year’s Eve celebration if midnight was already long past in your time zone?

(Crowley hadn’t invented time zones; that was good old Humanity, but he did have a hand in inventing localization-sensitive live television broadcasts, which he’d received a commendation for in the 1980s.)

Around the beginning of December, Aziraphale had had the marvelous idea of ringing in the new year with a party to get together with all of his newest acquaintances and celebrate the miraculous fact that there was a new year to ring in at all.

At least he’d _thought_ it was a marvelous idea. He’d drafted up invitations (written longhand in elaborate calligraphy), purchased several noisemakers and party hats, hired a caterer, decorated the shop in fairy lights and tinsel, and then, on his way to the post office to send out the invitations, realized that although Ms. Device and Madame Tracy and all the rest of them were fine company in small doses, the last thing that Aziraphale wanted at his own New Year’s Eve party was other people around.

This was why the bookshop now, a mere hour (give or take) away from 2020 A.D., had piles of unused noisemakers and party hats, and more pita bread, falafel, and hummus than any one person could consume on their own. (Aziraphale was game to try, however. He had been steadily making his way through it for the last several hours.)

The bookshop also had Crowley. Crowley was the only person Aziraphale had kept on his guest list, because having Crowley around wasn’t so much a necessity as it was a simple fact of existence. When he had thrown away the calligraphed invitations into the recycling on his way back from the post office, he’d remembered to save Crowley’s, and had sent it along with a pair of brand new black fleece gloves the following day.

Crowley’s reply had consisted of a voicemail that ran, “Angel, of course I’m going to your party, could’ve just asked me over lunch yesterday, can’t believe how bloody formal you are, gloves fit fine by the way, nice choice—and where the Heaven _else_ would I go on New Year’s, really—” at which point he’d abruptly hung up.

And perhaps most vitally, the bookshop also had champagne. Plenty of it. Crowley had been helping Aziraphale steadily make his way through that for the last several hours, as well.

So far, it was shaping up to be an excellent party.

“More bubbly, Angel, if you could,” Crowley was calling from the sofa in front of the television. He held his empty champagne flute aloft, not tearing his eyes away from the screen, which was playing a sneak peak of the final season of _The Good Place_.

In good time, Aziraphale came bustling in from the kitchenette, holding an opened bottle and his own full glass. He sloppily poured for Crowley and held up his glass for a toast.

“To . . .” Aziraphale thought for a moment, until a twinkle appeared in his eye. “To us,” he said decisively.

Crowley raised his glass in agreement. “To us.”

They clicked their glasses together and drank.

“Mmph!” said Aziraphale, quite satisfied, as he topped them both off again.

“Slow down a bit there,” said Crowley. He gestured at the countdown on the television. “Still got an hour to go.”

“You ought to know, I am not going to stop drinking at midnight,” said Aziraphale. “I bought enough champagne for ten people and I intend to use it.”

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley, scandalized, “have you got a drinking problem?”

“Pot, kettle,” said Aziraphale, and he took another drink.

Crowley laughed and settled back against the sofa. If he chose to, he could easily slink an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders, rather smoothly he thought, but he didn’t. Things between them were still hesitant, and after six thousand years of routine it was a lot for Crowley to get used to.

Still, the world had been born anew that year, and things were new and strange for everyone, everywhere. Heaven and Hell were still reeling from the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t and the War-that-never-arrived, and the humans were still trying to reconcile what exactly _had_ happened back in August, and why no one could seem to remember it the same way as anyone else.

It was a time for starting fresh, Crowley figured. And today (or, rather, tomorrow) would really cinch it, because he had a plan.

(It was not a plan deserving of a capital P. It was not Great, or even Ineffable. But as plans went, Crowley thought, it was a decent one. He felt rather good about it.)

“Quite a year,” Aziraphale said, interrupting his thoughts. Crowley glanced over at him.

“Nnyep,” he agreed, taking another sip of champagne. “That about sums it up.”

“It’s funny,” said Aziraphale, “for eleven years, I thought we’d never see this year arrive.”

Crowley squinted at him. “Never? Not once? You seemed pretty optimistic about our plan to convert the Antichrist early on.”

Aziraphale gave him an unamused look, but there was a twitch of a smile on his lips. “There were . . . moments. But overall I think I knew, on some level, it wasn’t going to work. And—well, I suppose I was right, in a way.”

“In a _way_ , yes, Angel.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “Old serpent. And I suppose you knew all the time that things would work out for the best?”

Crowley stared at his champagne glass. He considered all the events of the past decade, of days spent watching over young Warlock, of evenings spent at opera houses and restaurants sharing notes and drinks with Aziraphale, of all the fear and despair and triumph in equal measure, of the destruction of the Bentley and the burning of the bookshop, of the feeling of stepping into a pillar of Hellfire and spitting in the faces of the archangels who had hurt his Angel in a million tiny ways over the course of the last six millennia, of that meal at the Ritz that felt like both the end of something and the beginning of something else, of the smile Aziraphale gave him when they toasted to the world, and they both realized at the exact same moment that they were free.

“Yeah, I think maybe I did,” said Crowley. “Here, let’s commemorate the day.”

“Hmm?” said Aziraphale, mid-sip.

Crowley pulled out his phone and opened the camera. “Take a selfie with me,” he said, angling the screen at the both of them.

Aziraphale swallowed his drink. “Self-ee?” he said, as though he were trying to pronounce a word in Finnish, a language he had still not yet gotten around to learning.

“A photo, Angel, of the two of us. Here, move closer so we can both fit in the—”

But Aziraphale was already putting down his glass and moving closer to Crowley, pressing his warm chest against Crowley’s right side, and now Crowley’s arm really didn’t have anywhere else to go besides around his shoulders. Crowley suddenly felt very flustered. Aziraphale was pressing his cheek against his, though they both fit snugly in the frame and there was really no need to. It was almost as if he’d been waiting for an excuse.

“Alright,” said Crowley, hoping his voice sounded normal, or at least not like it was being squeezed out through a hole in a tire. “Say cheese.”

Trying not to let his hands shake, and trying to smile like a normal, not-nervous person, Crowley took several pictures from several angles, ensuring he captured at least one that would be nice enough to put in a frame on one’s bedside table. (Or even, perhaps, on a desk cluttered with paper.)

He scrolled through the photos afterwards as Aziraphale returned to the kitchenette to retrieve the cake he’d bought (with the intention to share, of course, but was now quite pleased to realize that he’d have it almost all to himself). Aziraphale was beaming in all of them, as usual, and Crowley had a more casual, tight-lipped smile that would have looked rather cool if it weren’t so obviously fond.

“Any cake for you, dear boy?” Aziraphale had returned from the kitchenette, holding only a fork and a whole chocolate cake, with a suspiciously fork-shaped dent in its side.

“Nah.” Crowley thought for a moment. “Have you got any apples?”

There was the ring of a suspiciously angelic sounding bell. “We have now,” said Aziraphale, passing Crowley a plate laden with sliced Fuji apples that he most certainly had not been holding a moment before.

Crowley bit into one. “Any honey?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but as he sat down a bowl appeared on the table nonetheless. “Rosh Hashanah was in September, my dear. This is the _secular_ new year.”

“The Gregorian one, more like.”

“Oh, let’s not start on _that_ again.”

“Anyway, never a bad idea to start the new year off on a sweet note,” said Crowley, and dipped an apple slice deep into the honey.

“Hmm, indeed,” said Aziraphale through a mouthful of chocolate mousse. He offered a forkful to Crowley. “Taste.”

Crowley did. He tried not to think about whose fork he was eating off of.

“It’s _Italian_ ,” said Aziraphale, as though the cake had recently been involved in some sort of titillating scandal.

“Mm. Delicious,” said Crowley, because it was.

“Isn’t it just?” said Aziraphale. “And what fine company to share it with.”

They smiled at one another for a moment. It was easy to forget, sometimes, how fond they were of each other. It was easy to forget this in the way the sound of a crackling fire is easy to forget, when it is constant and nearly always there, in the background of whatever you happen to be doing. It is only when the fire is gone that you realize that the room is far too quiet, and far too cold.

“May I see the photos of us?” asked Aziraphale, setting down his cake (or two-thirds of it, anyway).

“Ah, sure.” Crowley passed his phone over. Then, remembering who he’d just passed it to, he motioned for Aziraphale to hand it back and pulled up the pictures himself, swiping through them every few seconds.

“Crowley, these are excellent, well done, dear boy,” said Aziraphale. “So bright and colorful! And your smile is lovely,” he said, pinching Crowley’s cheek lightly as Crowley half-heartedly protested. Then, softly, almost to himself, hand on his chest, “Oh, aren’t we a proper pair.”

 _A pair of what,_ Crowley didn’t joke, and instead silently rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder as he scrolled for him. Aziraphale’s camel-hair housecoat and the pillowy white tufts of his own hair tickled Crowley’s nose.

He was so bloody _soft_.

The bookshop was warm enough, but Crowley found himself wanting to slither into Aziraphale’s pocket, to sit in his warm palm, to curl up in his hair like one of Medusa’s snakes. He wanted to press his nose to his neck and ask if he might put his lips there too; to give a kiss without taking one. He _could_ do all of these things, he realized, but what an unwelcome way to interrupt Aziraphale’s evening.

Crowley didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he felt a gentle tugging at his shirt collar, and they snapped open again.

“Dear boy,” said Aziraphale, withdrawing his hand and smirking like a fiend, “have you already succumbed to the late hour?”

Crowley pulled himself upright again and checked his phone. “ ‘S only eleven-thirty, Angel, what d’you take me for?” Not waiting for an answer, he said, “By the way, got something for you.”

Aziraphale, about to resume his progress on the cake, paused and settled back down against the sofa. “Something for me?” He glanced around the room expectantly, as though it might have manifested somewhere when he wasn’t looking.

Crowley reached behind a sofa cushion, where he’d stowed away a small package earlier that evening. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string, and Crowley was relieved to see the joke was not lost on Aziraphale, for he gave Crowley an unamused look as he handed it over.

That, however, melted away when he untied the string and let the paper fall away to reveal its contents. “Oh,” said Aziraphale, in much the same way he had several hundred years ago, upon venturing into Notre Dame cathedral for the very first time.

Crowley could not bear to look at the expression on Aziraphale’s face as he stared down at the book in his hands; it was far too bright to be safe, even with sunglasses on. “Saw it on an eBay listing,” he said to the television. “Remembered you said something about it missing from your collection.”

(The book was, of course, volume six of a collection of seventeenth-century diary entries from a long-dead English lord. It was a dusty, priceless heirloom that Crowley couldn’t imagine anyone ever owning for the purpose of actually reading it. He’d had to bargain with a dowager countess for it over tea for four hours.)

In his peripheral vision, Crowley saw Aziraphale place his hands on the cover, turn the book over, flutter the pages, read a few lines. “Crowley,” he said, looking over at him, and Crowley had to shut his eyes against the glow. “Crowley,” he insisted, “ _Crowley_ , you _demon_ , you _darling_ , it isn’t even a gift-giving holiday, I got you _gloves_ and you get me _this_.”

“They were _nice_ gloves, Angel.”

“I really _must_ say th—”

“Don’t—!”

 _“Thank you,”_ Aziraphale said pointedly, patting Crowley’s arm on each syllable.

Crowley groaned and stuffed another apple slice in his mouth. “Welcome,” he muttered a moment later, and Aziraphale laughed like the ringing of bells.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, sobering a moment, “I wish I had something to give you.” For an ineffectual moment, he glanced around the shop, as though an idea might slide itself off a shelf and occur to him. “Is there something you’d like?” he asked helplessly.

Crowley waved him off, embarrassed. “You got me the gloves, and the apples, _and_ the honey. Don’t need anything more.”

“Surely there must be _something_.” Then Aziraphale snapped his fingers, not as in a miracle, but as in _eureka_. “Have you got any new year’s resolutions? Maybe I could help with one of those.”

Crowley thought of the extensive list of resolutions he kept in his bedside drawer, which he’d been working on since the new year of 1265 A.D. He had yet to cross off a single item, but this year, right around the beginning of September, he’d added a new one. “. . . D’you really wanna help?” he asked Aziraphale.

The beaming smile Aziraphale gave him was the brightest yet that evening. Crowley would really have to start investing in darker shades. “My dear boy, if you’ll let me, of course.”

“Right,” said Crowley. He looked at the time on the Times Square broadcast. He drew a bit of confidence from somewhere deep within himself. “ _Right._ Angel, you’re aware of the marvelous tradition humans have on New Year’s Eve, at midnight?”

Aziraphale blinked. He looked vaguely at the television. “Fireworks?” he said, at length.

“A _shared_ tradition. Something they _give_ each other. To _celebrate_. _Together._ ” Crowley hinted as subtly as he was able at the moment.

Aziraphale looked down at the empty champagne glasses. “Toasting?”

“Something _intimate_.”

Aziraphale only stared at him, all naivete.

 _“Angel,”_ said Crowley, altogether desperately. “You must’ve heard of this, please don’t make me—”

But Aziraphale was laughing. He’d put a hand to his mouth and was giggling as though he was a cat gotten away with the cream a hundred times over.

Crowley crumpled against the sofa, crimson but relieved. “You’re cruel. You’re a cruel, heartless angel, you know that?”

“Dear boy,” said Aziraphale, no longer laughing but still smug, “I am sorry, but you make it far too easy for me.” He leaned warmly into Crowley’s space across the sofa and tugged gently at his ear. “If you like, of course you may give me a New Year’s kiss.”

Crowley’s head went rather fuzzy for a moment, and somewhere in the daze he managed to point out, “You’re drunk.”

Aziraphale laughed again, cheeks all rosy and curls all tossed. He looked like a cherub that had found his way into a bacchanalia. “Tipsy, my dear. And I wouldn’t say something like that if I didn’t mean it.” And this, Crowley knew, was true.

It was 11:59 PM on New Year’s Eve in Soho. On the television, despite the time difference, crowds of people in Times Square cheered in anticipation, already beginning to count down from sixty seconds.

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hands in his. “Happy New Year, Crowley,” he said to him softly.

Crowley balked. “Not _yet_ , Angel,” he nodded at the television, “we’ve still got thirty seconds.” But he didn’t pull his hands away.

Aziraphale smiled at him, gone all sentimental and silly and wonderful. “I couldn’t wait.”

“ _Now_ you can’t wait. Hasn’t updated his wardrobe in a hundred years, tells me I drive too fast, takes three hours to eat a crepe, and _now_ —”

Through his laughter, Aziraphale said, “Crowley, it’s down to ten seconds—”

“Oh, bugger—”

 _“Seven,”_ said Aziraphale, in time with the people on the television.

 _“Six,”_ Crowley chimed in.

All across London, wherever people found themselves gathered together, they started counting down.

In dingy pubs: _“Five!”_

In tiny apartments: _“Four!”_

In gay bars: _“Three!”_

In crowded hostels: _“Two!”_

In homeless shelters: _“One!”_

And, as all the people of London cheered in unison, a great cry that rose up above the city like the nicest kind of smog: **“Happy New Year!!”** , Crowley, enacting phase one of his lowercase-p plan, leaned over towards Aziraphale and kissed him—on the cheek.

There was silence in the bookshop for a moment. Then Aziraphale burst out, “I meant on the _lips_ , my dear, on the _lips_!”

“O-Oh,” said Crowley, blinking. “You sure?”

“Am I—? Am I _sure_ , he asks. Ridiculous old serpent, foolish old darling. _Am I—_ ”

And then Aziraphale stopped talking for a while, because Crowley had gotten the hint. Kissing Aziraphale did not feel at all like taking, or giving; it only felt wonderful. His lips tasted of champagne, chocolate, and ozone, and they were sweet and lovely and soft. Crowley found himself pressing closer, wanting to let Aziraphale drink his fill of him—and my, did the angel drink. Crowley wondered, between breaths that allowed him a moment’s clarity before he dived back in, whether Aziraphale had been waiting all evening for Crowley to ask him for this. Whether he’d been _hoping_. The thought made him feel hot and cold at the same time, before Aziraphale’s lips met his again and it was banished to oblivion.

When they finally pulled apart, Aziraphale licked his lips and said, “You were about ten seconds late, my dear.”

Crowley’s world had gone all blurry with love and champagne, but he managed to reply, “Oh, and I suppose cheek kisses don’t count, then?”

“They don’t on New Year’s.” Aziraphale’s prissiness was a tad offset by a blush that had worked its way down to his neck, and the slight breathlessness of his voice. He looked, Crowley surmised, appropriately well-snogged. It was a good look on him.

“Picky Angel,” Crowley said gently. _I love you,_ he didn’t say, but he thought Aziraphale might have heard it anyway. Then, businesslike: “Right, then.”

They fell back into one another at the same moment, and forgot all about the business of time for a good long while. The world, of course, did not, and despite everything, kept right on turning. One by one, midnight reached each human in the world, bringing them into the new year, the new decade, as gently as it knew how.

Meanwhile, it was 12:01 AM on New Year’s Day in Soho, and an angel and a demon were sitting in an old bookshop, quite happily ringing in the new year.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Happy New Year everyone!


End file.
